


At First, There Were Good Intentions

by wbss21



Category: Thor - Fandom, Thor: The Dark World - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Brotherly Love, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-02-15 07:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2220252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wbss21/pseuds/wbss21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor: The Dark World spoilers ahead. Post-T:TDW. Loki always thought there would be so much time to make everything right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At first, it is only that he cannot breathe.

There is no air, and he feels his eyes go wide with the effort of finding it, his hands lifting uselessly, as though that will somehow help.

He tries gasping for it, tries sucking in deep breaths, like Mother used to tell him to when he was a child and he was afraid.

"Deep breaths, my child. Deep breaths."

He tries, but all that will come is nothing, and he can't get one. He can't. He tries so hard, but he can't.

At first, it is only this.

And then, slowly, he hears something like rhythmic drumming, pounding in his temples, and he thinks a voice, blurred and undefined, like listening through water.

It is only when he feels the ground beneath him vibrate with a crash, and there is suddenly upon him a terrible warmth, sliding beneath the nape of his neck, he realizes the sounds were the beating of boots and the broken voice of his brother.

His brother.

Thor.

Oh gods, Thor…

And then the pain comes, and he is terrified.

Thor… Thor…

He wants… oh, he wants him…

His head lolls back with the agony of it, and he feels that warmth squeeze as his throat constricts, and he tries again to breathe.

His eyes sting, and he cannot see well. All he can see is black wastes and bleak, sunless sky.

His head is coming back forward, and he doesn't have the strength for it. He can feel, he doesn't have the strength.

The world spins, and then, he looks up, and Thor is there. Thor is there.

And his hands curl uselessly as he tries to reach, as his mind whirls and he wants to hold on to the warmth of his brother. He wants to hold on, he wants Thor to hold on to him, because he doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to go, and he's so scared. He's so scared.

"Oh, you fool. You didn't listen."

Loki wants to beg Thor to hold on to him, because he's scared. He wants to beg Thor not to let him go. To keep him safe.

"Please, please, keep me safe."

But he can't make the words form.

His tongue feels heavy and done, and he sputters helplessly as his eyes lock onto the face above him.

"I am a fool." He stammers, trembling.

He's beginning to feel cold.

And new fear takes him.

He's never…

Never felt this before.

Never felt cold.

He tries swallowing, and he can't, and then a fresh wave of ripping pain tears through him, and he rocks forward in desperate panic, eyes clamping shut, and his voice breaks apart and hitches as he tries to breathe.

"I'm a fffoool."

And Thor is there. Thor is holding him. He's holding onto him. Loki knows, because where his hands are is warm.

The rest is so cold.

But where Thor touches him, he's warm.

He's holding him, and then he's shushing him.

"Shhhshhhshhh…" he says, and Loki shutters. "Stay with me, okay?"

And there is warmth on his face, where Thor's palm presses, pushing back dishevled hair, and Loki stares at him, and sees the naked sadness there, his great, handsome features twisted in his own pain.

And he knows.

Loki knows he's dying.

He tries, then, panicked and choked with fear, reaching for his magic.

But it isn't there.

He can't touch it.

He can feel it, bleeding out of him, rapid and unceasing. And he can't stop it. He can't find it. Can't control…

And none of this was supposed to happen.

None of this… none of any of this…

He sees Thor, and he wants to say, he wants to make him understand. He wants to tell the truth, and please, make Thor understand, make Thor see, he never meant for any of this to happen.

It was only, he wanted for things to be alright. Only that he was afraid, and he wanted to be good. He wanted to be looked upon well. Because look, couldn't they see? Couldn't they see he wanted what was good for the Realm? Couldn't they see the foolery of letting Thor take the throne, inexperienced and filled with battle lust as he was?

Couldn't Odin see? Couldn't Odin see him? See that he only wanted what was right for the Realm? What was right for them? For all of them?

Couldn't Odin see?

He never meant…

He never meant for any of this. Never wanted any of this.

And he wants to say to Thor. He wants to make Thor understand.

But he can't now.

He can't.

It's too late, and he doesn't have time.

He was supposed to have so much time.

And he can't tell him. He can't explain. Can't confess any of what happened, any of what they did to him. Can't make Thor understand he didn't mean for any of this. Didn't want any of this. Can't admit he was afraid, and lost, and he didn't know what to do. Didn't know what to do without his big brother.

His mind races, frantic and searching and desperate. And all his eloquence is gone. All his silvertongue, useless and dead, and no words can he find.

Still, he tries. And all that comes from his numbing lips and trembling voice is to tell him "I'm sorry."

He says it, and it feels right. And it feels like not enough. And he says it again, rushed and urgent.

"I'm sorry."

And he wants Thor to understand so badly. He wants Thor to see. But this isn't enough, and he doesn't have the time anymore, and he'll never know, he'll never see…

"I'm sorry." He says again, and it isn't enough.

"It's alright." Thor says. His great, thundering voice is weak and shaking, and it's so wrong. It isn't right at all.

There is such sorrow etched and deep within his face, and Loki wonders at it, and hates himself that he should have put it there with this final act of foolish heroics.

He never could do it right.

He never could do any of this right.

And he doesn't even know why. Doesn't understand.

Only that he saw Thor. Saw that monster killing Thor, and he moved, because that was his position. He watched Thor's back. That was his place. He guarded Thor's back.

And Thor was relying on him. Thor trusted him. And he couldn't… he couldn't let that monster kill Thor too. Not Thor too… Not when he'd let him kill…

"I'll tell Father what you did here today." Thor says.

And Loki feels himself losing.

What strength is left goes, suddenly, and he stops. He stops shaking.

His body falls still.

He stares up into his brother's eyes. He stares up, and he sees all the ruin his own actions have wrought, even in his wish to do well.

And he thinks, maybe… he hopes then Thor knows. Even if he caused him suffering in it, he meant well..

He meant well…

He's dying.

He knows it.

There is no fighting this anymore.

And so he doesn't.

He doesn't anymore.

He won't go to Valhalla. He won't see Mother.

He doesn't deserve that.

He stares up into his brother's eyes, and everything is so cold now. It's so cold, and the pain has stopped. He can't feel it anymore.

He can't feel anything anymore.

He stares up at Thor, and he hopes he understands, even when he's known so well from the past the danger of ever hoping at all.

"… I didn't do it for him." He says.

And from him the world washes away forever.


	2. Chapter 2

He wakes, and he is in Hel.

The sky above him is naught but a mass of swirling black smoke and burnt fire. Blurred and bled together colors he cannot distinguish from one another, his focus gone and ruined as it spins relentlessly, refusing to still.

The ground beneath him is hard and unyielding, the air heavy with the smell of soot and ozone and the cloying metallic copper of blood. And it is cold. Near suffocating in its oppression.

For a moment, though, none of this registers.

None of it matters.

He is dead.

He is in Hel.

And finally, the agony of his wretched existence has come to an end.

For a moment, relief floods him like a breaking damn, for the freedom he has gained from suffering.

He has wanted to die for so very long.

But as the moments pass in seeming eternity, and his eyes stay fixed and unmoving on the sky above, there is a sense gradually of clarity and feel.

He can feel.

Too well, he can feel.

Too well, he can see, and hear, and taste.

And all too abruptly then, it comes crashing in.

Pain.

And no… no, that isn't right.

That isn't right, even for those condemned to eternity in the halls of Hela herself.

Hela, who he'd thought would come and wrap him in the inescapable embrace of her arms, and pull him under into the land of the dishonored dead. Into a land of pure shadow and depthless cold. A land where nothing matters, nothing is, nothing feels or hurts or does.

A place of nonexistence, which is where Loki belongs. It is where he wishes now to be.

But he can feel, and he cannot remember any journey from there to here. He cannot remember any path.

Only the panic of knowing death upon him, the desperate struggle for his magic, and the eventual release of yielding to his fate.

And then, only darkness.

Nothing else.

And there should have been something more.

Something more.

And as the most vicious and sudden of open palmed slaps, the sky above at once comes into focus, sunless and bleak as of permanent twilight, and the ground beneath him is hard and cold and somehow shifting as sand.

The air is frozen and choking in his lungs, and focus narrows onto a wash of drowning pain, his body racked and destroyed by it.

He curls in on himself, and then he rolls, and he sees the black wastes beneath him, and the pain rips through to his core, turning then to panic.

He pitches forward, a strangled, ragged gasp tearing from his throat as he scrambles across the sand on hands and knees, and he falls, crumpling to his elbows, crawling forward a small space more before bile is forcing its way, hot and burning, up from his roiling insides and into his throat.

He can't stop it, and it explodes out, past his lips, a broken gag following with it as his entire frame stiffens and convulses and shudders with the expulsion.

Again, he vomits, violent and sick, and it doesn't escape his eyes, that what he vomits is near pure blood.

And like water escaping through a sieve, what pitiful strength he'd used to move that small distance drains from him in rapid time, and he sinks down, limp and defeated, until his face is pressed to the earth, and he lies like a pig on his belly, helpless and exposed.

A thin groan slips past his lips, and his lids, heavy as stone, fall shut, a warm dampness at their corners.

He cannot move.

Only lie still, and let his face twist with the agony of being, with the pain which runs through him like a lance, and he lets his mind wonder why, why, why wasn't he dead!?

Oh, what it is to be so truly the failure that he cannot even succeed in ending his own miserable, worthless existence.

And like a wave, despair comes crashing down upon his head as an impossible weight, and he cannot keep the sound of it away, a single, brittle sob falling past his blood smeared teeth.

It is all he allows himself, before he lets seething rage consume him. Before he latches to it as a drowning man would the side of a skiff, and finds in it, as always he has, his escape from what it is to be him.

His hands reach and fingers dig with bruising, tearing pressure along the sides of his head, digging into locks of hair and ripping.

And open his mouth falls, and from it does he scream.

Twisted and broken and cracked, and for any who's ears it falls upon, they would not think it a man, nor any kind of a god. Only some poor and dying animal caught in a trap of pure malice. Some wretched beast who cannot escape its own, awful state even by chewing through its flesh, through its fat and muscle and bone. Cannot escape even by tearing its own body free of its caught limb.

Loki screams, and then he lifts his face to the sunless, starless sky, and he cries out in words built and breathed in the most pure and incorruptible of hatreds.

"You thrice wicked and cruelest of trios!" He screams, voice pitched high and shattered. "You awful and cunning and kindles creatures who would dare to call yourselves Ladies! You, who's hateful fingers weave the fates of men and gods alike!" He forces himself to his knees, hands coming down and burying in the black sand, fingers curling through it and lifting, tossing it with all his strength across the barren land. "You leave me to this!? You dare!? You wretched, arrogant, soulless pits who calls themselves the Norns! I damn you to your misery! I condemn you to the everlasting despair of knowing your own end and the knowledge of your powerlessness in it, of ever being able to alter its course!"

He waits, then. Half expecting, half praying that in this place of nothingness, where on his knees he sits, they will strike him down for his display of hubris and goading, insolent insults.

But the fates have never been so kind to Loki Liesmith. Loki of no place, son of no one.

Only his own voice echoes back at him from barren desolation.

It is only him here.

None else.

As ever…

He is alone.

/

It is his magic which had kept him from Hela's arms.

His magic, which in his panic and fear he had thought was failing him. His magic, which, because Frigga's own hadn't saved her from near the same wound, he had believed it impossible for him to succeed where his Mother had failed.

He had forgotten his power.

Had let the belief's of others blind him to his own capacity. Again.

But his was the name linked as that of the most powerful sorcerer in Asgard, excepting that of the AllFather himself.

Frigga, Queen of the Aesir, may have taught him the foundations of controlling his seidr, but it had been long past since he had surpassed her in skill, low as others were to admit it. And low as he was to acknowledge himself her better in any way, even when she had praised him for just such, so very long ago.

He had forgotten his power, and not understood in his panic and fear its seeming refusal to his call had been instead his subconscious focus of it towards repairing the damage his body had suffered.

He understood this only when at last, after he had spent himself screaming at the heavens and cursing the existence of himself and the Norns alike, he had collapsed in exhaustion, and glimpsed the torn leather of his armor, and beneath it, the healing pink of an already forming scar where the Kursed monster had run him through, dried and flaking blood about it.

And he had laughed.

He had laughed until tears had streamed, free and unceasing down his dirtied cheeks. Until the pain of his mercilessly jostled, still tender wound had ached so viciously, he thought he would again throw up.

And to no one but the whistling wind did he whisper of how it was Loki who is truly Loki's worst enemy.

And then he had laughed again, and forced himself to bend down and wrap his arms about himself and squeeze until his vision grew blurred with the agony, and his teeth had grit together. Until he could no longer tell if the tears down his face were those of ironic mirth deranged bitterness, or rather truly by nothing more than the physical torment of his self-abuse.

For oh, now, Thor would never forgive him, and Loki Liesmith, Loki of the Silvertongue, Loki the trickster and the Mischief maker, could never make him believe. Could never convince his older brother he had never meant for any of this, and that as the first time he had tried in desperate pain to end his life, this too had been in earnest. For though this time he hadn't meant to die…

He hadn't meant to not die either.

And Thor would think it some trick. Some betrayal. And what love he'd seen in his brother's eyes before the world had faded from his consciousness, he knew would harden and shrivel to nothing when his continued existence was found out.

Even that parting comfort, the promise of Thor's love, was to be denied him.

And Loki had torn his hair at the thought, and screamed, and laughed, and wasted what precious strength he had in unleashing wave after wave of pure magical energy onto the surrounding, faceless land, rending craters fifty feet deep and twenty or more wide.

And then, so suddenly, it was only then he consciously realized that Thor was gone.

That he had left, and taken the girl with him.

Left Loki there, all alone. Left his body to wash away with the sands and be forgotten, as he had been in his cell in Asgard.

Forgotten and unwanted, as he had been his whole life.

And a bitter rage had taken him then, and he had cursed Thor's name for the betrayal and unleashed stronger blasts still, destroying the land around him until it was nothing but a pockmarked ruin. Until that rage had bled to desperate despair, and he had felt the panic bubbling up inside his chest, his breaths beginning to come fast and shallow, like he couldn't ever get enough air. And his eyes had stung, sharp and painful, and he had begun walking, frantically, he stride quick and jerky as he had turned his head left to right, looking, looking, looking as he cried out Thor's name, certain, certain that he must be mistaken. That Thor would never abandon him. He would never leave him alone like that. He wouldn't, because he had promised. As children, Thor had promised, and Loki could still hear the words upon the air as he cried Thor's name.

"I'll always be with you Loki."

Thor was only hiding someplace. Had only sought shelter from the raging winds of Svartlheim, from the way it flung sand to sting in your eyes. He was hiding someplace, to protect the woman, for she was only mortal, and weak, and Loki smiled at the thought Thor would consider him strong enough to be alright out there, on his own, until the storm had passed.

Thor had always believed in his strength. And Mother. Even when no one else had.

And so he looked and looked, and he called Thor's name.

Because Thor would not leave him here alone, even if he thought Loki was dead. Even if he thought so.

Only now, here he sits on his knees, surrounded by nothing but black wastes and a starless sky, and he knows Thor is gone. He couldn't find him.

Thor left, and he is alone.

It makes his throat hurt, and his heart pound in something too like terror, and so he forces his thoughts away from that. Away from all of that.

He knows, somehow, if he does not focus, he may be trapped forever in this place.

Trapped forever…

Left alone…

… Am I cursed?

Left to die on a frozen rock…

… No.

… But both of you were born to be Kings.

Your birthright… was to die…

What am I…

… You are my son.

You were knee deep in Jotun blood, why would you take me…

You were an innocent child…

No, you took me for a purpose…

… If I had not taken you, you would not be here now to hate me.

Hate, hate… hate!

And now Loki thinks of Odin.

He thinks of him, and inside, he feels himself go rigid with hate.

His hands curl until his fingernails bite into the flesh of his palms, his teeth hard together, and for a moment, he grows deaf with a consuming buzz, powerful in his ears, and he sees only black round the edges of his sight.

For a moment, he is bleak with desire for revenge.

For Odin to pay.

To pay for all of this. All of this is his fault!

Because he only wanted for Odin to see… to see him, for once. To see him, see he could be just as good a son as Thor. Just as good. Just as strong. Just a noble and right.

He only tried to make Odin see, and he wouldn't. He wouldn't even look. And everything… everything he ever told him, everything he ever said, ever promised and swore and claimed… it was nothing, nothing but lies! For a thousand and more years, only LIES!

And how came he to be called Liesmith and trickster, when Odin's scheming exposed Loki's own as nothing more than mere child's play?

Or maybe it was only his own, pitiful desperation to believe he could ever be loved that blinded him to the AllFather's deceptions. He, who is said to possess the ability to see through any untruth, and yet he could not see it of his own, entire existence.

Could only sense something desperately wrong with him, and chose instead to believe the assurances of his parents than listen to the doubts in his own, confused mind.

Oh, but he wishes for Odin to pay.

Only… he can't think how. He can't think how. Odin is so much more powerful, he knows this. He could never kill him, and he tells himself it is only through lack of power he cannot.

This he almost believes.

But still, he wishes him to pay, somehow.

And what now does Loki have to lose, he wonders. What more can he lose?

There is nothing, and so then, he thinks, might it not be a blessing, were he to end his life by attacking the AllFather directly?

If even he thought Odin held any care in his heart for his bastard, stolen son, would that not in itself too be a kind of revenge?

If Odin were to end his life by his own hand?

If he thought Odin held any care for him at all…

But he has nothing to lose, and so what difference does it make? He has no home anymore. No place anywhere. No family. No friends. Only enemies on all sides, who will hunt him down and add still further torture to his already miserable existence.

By clinging to this life, he has lost the one companion he might still have salvaged for himself in Thor, and lost his only place of refuge from the torments of the monsters out there great as he.

Oh, but…

Loki's eyes go wide with dawning thought. The excitement of possibility surging of its own volition, hot in his chest.

His body winds tight suddenly, a kind of nervous energy taking him, anxious and eager.

And slow, a smile spreads across his lips.

Oh, but if he could make this work, then…

Then still he might find for himself a kind of existence worth living.

Still he might save himself from the awful disappointment of the one being left who might at all care for him, who still held enough trust in him to give him any kind of chance, and have for himself a place of protection from any who would seek his further pain.

Perhaps, even… he might do better by Thor in this.

To be to him the Father he always wished for himself…

He could do this for them both, he thinks.

And in that, perhaps, to Mother he could make recompense. For in that, would she not be proud?

If he could do this for both himself, and Thor?


	3. Chapter 3

He tells his brother he is proud of him, and that is the truth.

He tells Thor this as he walks away from his home. From his position. From the throne, and the responsibility of a King.

He tells him this as he wears the face of Odin.

Because from Odin, the words for Thor will be true.

Because from himself, he knows Thor would never believe him at all.

"I am being sincere!"

"You are incapable of sincerity!"

"… Am I?"

"Am I?" He whispers to himself long after Thor's footfalls have faded, and there is none left in the vast space of the throne room but him.

He tells Thor he is proud of him as he wears the face of Odin, and he thinks how it is only ever behind a lie he finds the courage to tell the truth.

But no one ever really understood that of him.

How all his truths were presented as lies, and all his lies as truths.

Perhaps then they all were right, to call him coward.

/

He sits upon the throne of Asgard, and he wears the face of a liar.

Before him stand traitors and oath breakers.

Before Odin, they have the decency to look shamed.

"You have committed treason of the highest order against your King and Sovereign, all of you." He says in the commanding voice of the AllFather, and before him, the Gatekeeper and the Shield-Maiden and her band of Warrior friends kneel upon one knee, and bend their faces to the ground in deference and in shame.

He frowns in the face of Odin.

"I could have you, each of you, stripped of your titles and your citizenship of this Realm, and cast out into exile for the rest of your days."

The gathered group says nothing, and keeps their necks bent, there fists clenched and laid across their hearts.

And Loki knows, were he to banish them now from Asgard and strip them of their ranks and titles and accomplishments, they would accept their fates without question, and make no moves to defy his decision.

He remembers standing before Heimdall on the Rainbow Bridge. Standing before him as his rightful King.

"For your act of treason, I say you are no longer citizen of Asgard, and I have use of your talents no longer."

He remembers Heimdall renouncing his loyalty and drawing his sword up. Remembers him bringing the blade down upon his neck.

Remembers how the Gatekeeper who for Thor and his friends went twice against the word of his King, and who for Odin made effort to inform of his trespass and submit himself willingly to whatever punishment his crime called for, for him, for Loki, he drew his blade and tried without hesitation to take off his head.

He wonders now if his rank of Prince ever held any weight at all.

Or if that was just another lie.

For with even such a title to bolster his regard, regard was, for him, always little.

And he is too tired now to make them pay as they should have.

He waves a dismissive hand, turning his gaze from their forms.

"Eh…" he says, and the exhaustion in his voice is true. "go then."

The five of them look up, unable to keep the surprise from their faces.

"And when next you think of committing such acts against your King, think then on my mercy here this day, and make your decision from that."

They announce their gratitude then in effusive tones and words, again bowing their heads, and Loki is overcome with the desire to cut them all down where they kneel, and be rid of their treacherous faces.

Instead he only dismisses them, and leaves himself with his thoughts, alone in the echoing, empty space.

/

He finds a task for Sif and her faithful companions.

To her hands, he gives over the Aeither, and commands she take it from Asgard, and deliver it safely to the hands of another.

Separated by long lengths from the Tesseract. Separated, for as such, the two gems of Infinity cannot be brought together, and from Thanos, that power will be kept.

/

Loki is a dutiful King.

Ever has he had a head for the tedious nature and inner workings of politics and policy. Ever has he had the patience and grasp which Thor himself always lacked.

He attends every day his appointed meetings with advisors, and listens and speaks, and makes decisions, both of import and little consequence. And they are good decisions. They are solid, and well informed, and aimed always towards the health of the Realm. He implements policies only after they have been thoroughly considered.

And every day, after, he gives audience to Asgard's citizens, and presides as judge over whatever disputes have erupted between them. Feuds between land owners, and those who work the land. Quarrels between lovers, and rivalries between royal houses.

He sits, and he listens, and considers each side. And then he makes decisions to end their conflicts, and moves on to the next.

He receives dignitaries from the other Realms. Alfheim and Vaniheim and Nidavellier and Nornheim. Even Musplheim and Jotunheim. He hosts them, and works to improve and bolster relations between them and Asgard.

He is good at this.

He is good at policy. At the delicacy of balance in power. The fragility of negotiation and the drawing up of treaties agreeable to all, while strengthening the position of his own pe…

Of Asgard's people…

He is good at this.

And then he holds court.

He presides over courtiers, and the members of the various houses of Nobility, while they dine and gather and celebrate and dance.

He is not good at this.

He sits separated from them, and he is quiet.

And he does not miss the askance glances thrown his way. The wondering puzzlement over his behavior.

Where Odin commanded their respect and had their fear, where, whether he spoke or not, his presence was felt like an unceasing pressure against the chest, and bared down on all of them to overwhelm, and where Thor was the great light they flocked to, clung to and swore loyalty to by sheer force of his blinding charisma, who's every word they hung on and took heed of purely in deference to the love they held for him, Loki was ever as an unseen shadow, silent and unacknowledged.

And from this nature, he cannot escape now, even as he hides behind the face of the AllFather.

He finds himself falling into what he is, retreating from the light.

He is shy, and within himself.

His presence commands no attention. Commands no acknowledgement. No regard.

If not for the reputation of Odin AllFather and the respect he demanded, Loki thinks, all his talent, all his intelligence in lawmaking and political maneuvering and gifts for the handling of delicate relations, would be for naught. For no one would listen, if they did not think it was Odin they listened to.

And here is a bitter fruit to swallow.

It matters not how fine you are at laying the foundations of a thing. How deftly you are able to manipulate and coax and shape the intricate ends of what makes up a Kingdom. It matters not, if you do not also possess the ability to win the minds and hearts of that Kingdom's people.

And now Loki understands the importance of Thor upon the throne.

If even he acted as only a figurehead, he would have had the people's trust, and their admiration.

They would have followed him into anything, as they had followed Odin.

As they would never follow him.

/

It is well into the earliest morning hours, when the night is at its darkest, and Loki sits, alone, in the chambers belonging to those he once called Mother and Father.

He sits upon their bed, blankets tossed and discarded round his crossed legs, and he remembers his childhood.

Nights spent red faced and teary eyed as he woke violently from nightmares. And when Thor had grown too old to entertain his little brother's childish fears, he had taken to coming here, seeking out safety in the arms of his parents.

He remembers burying himself against the breast of his Mother, and clinging to her desperately as he sobbed without control. Clinging to her as though his very life were dependent upon not letting go.

And Frigga would hold him to her, and whisper soothing words against his ear, running her beautiful and delicate fingers through his sweat damped hair, shushing him and promising him it would be alright.

… Everything would be alright.

He remembers eavesdropping on them, and hearing between them bitter arguments.

Odin complaining agitatedly that she was coddling him too much. That he would grow soft from her overindulgences.

And Frigga countering, angry and with tears in her eyes that if she did not, who would?

"Who else will show that boy love?!" Her voice echoes back to him in the dark, and his eyes slip closed.

He didn't understand what any of that meant then.

He reaches down, long, fine boned fingers burying in the material of the covers, and he pulls them up and around him, over his shoulders. He pulls them tight and bunched across his thin chest, cocooning himself as his head bows low.

He is a Cuckoo in this place.

In this bed.

He does not belong here.

And companionship is found now only in loneliness.

Solitude is his best and oldest and only friend.

His lips stretch in a sickened smile at the thought.

Sometimes it is so heavy, he thinks he will begin to cry.

But he never can, and he thinks perhaps it is because he has forgotten how.

He lets himself sink down, head resting against the pillow, covers wrapped round himself too tight and warm.

"… Mother." He whispers into the darkness.

And there answers him back no one.

Only the empty, dead air of a place he never belonged.

/

It is in the chilled, early morning autumn of Asgard, standing upon the balcony of Odin's and Frigga's chambers and overlooking the city, bathed already in brilliant and blinding golden light, that Loki realizes it has been nigh on a year since Thor has left.

A year since last he had looked upon the face of and spoke to his brother.

There is something too like longing which blooms then, suddenly, in his chest, and his face twists in a scowl as he tells himself he does not miss him.

As he told himself unendingly when he rotted away in the cells below this palace, and none came to see him ever.

When only he was allowed the illusion of his Mother's presence.

And that, too, he squandered.

Viciously, he tears his thoughts from that.

Only, inevitably, inexorably, his thoughts come back to Thor, and he realizes, again, the weight of his absence on him.

Loki hides away.

He hides away, and he sees no one, speaks to no one outside his advisors and dignitaries, and to settle disputes between strangers.

It was only ever Thor capable of bringing him out into the light.

Only Thor who's presence afforded him any kind of social life at all. For the interest shown in him was only ever born from a regard for the elder Prince.

None ever sought his friendship alone.

And Loki knows not how to build such things without Thor.

… Does not find himself able to now even desire such without him.

He turns from the city, from its golden, shining spires, and retreats back inside.

Back into the dark.

Back into where he belongs…

/

It is months more which pass, and Asgard, under his stead, is as unchanging as ever.

Under his leadership, it remains atop the Nine Realms and in its place of power.

Under his hand, the Aesir continue to thrive and live well.

It is months more which pass, and Loki is suffocating in his isolation.

He reads, and he sleeps, and he leads.

He does nothing more. He barely eats even.

If any have noticed Odin's strange behavior, they have not made mention of it to his face.

And lately, Loki is consumed by memories of the past.

Of quests taken with Thor, and his band of idiot friends.

And of how he had suffered under those friends taunts and unspoken derision. Under their hate filled glances.

Thor had accused him once of imagining those things. But Loki knows it was no affect of imagining.

They had hated him, Sif and the Warriors Three. Or, in the least, they had thought him too strange to like, and in their exclusion of him from their jests and games and companionship did that dislike take form.

They did not want him. Tolerated his presence only for Thor's insistence that he be brought along.

It was more often than he cared to recall, he had overheard them when they thought him not near, laughing and talking of his incompetence and the burden he placed upon them and their goals, simply by being there.

Only Sif had never laughed with them, but her disdainful glances his way told him enough she shared their views.

But even still, with that, even still…

He had had Thor.

Thor alone had wanted him, and that alone had been enough.

That alone had been everything he needed, then. And the memories now of moments spent with his brother, he thinks, outweigh the memories of the others.

Sitting awake with Thor, so late into the night, after all the rest of them had fallen asleep.

How, sometimes, they would fall into such deep conversation together, they would forget the hours, and not notice their passing until the sun had begun its break over the horizon. How, times other, they would simply sit in each other's company, comfortable in a near meditative silence.

He remembers, now, how it was always him the others would order sent off to gather kindling for the fire, and how, sometimes, Thor would catch up to him and grab him by the shoulder. And Loki would turn and see him standing there, smiling, and asking if he could come along, as though there would ever be any chance Loki would not want him there.

And when they would go hunting, he remembers Thor so often insisting Sif and the Warriors form their own party, because, he would say, he was taking Loki, and they would be fine on their own. And the others had often complained aloud and offered their protests. Often, they would say, they would argue of how Loki would only slow them down, would likely prevent them even from making any kill of any sort. They would attempt to persuade Thor through the tossing around of threats, laughing as they went on about how the Crown Prince would be robbing himself of the glory and honor of the hunt by allowing his younger, weaker sibling to come along and weigh him down. They would tell Thor he should leave him, and Thor would only laugh, and repeat himself, insisting they split apart, because he was taking Loki hunting.

And Loki remembers trying so hard, because he wanted to prove them wrong, and he wanted… he wanted to show Thor he had made the right decision.

He wanted not to give Thor reason to ever believe their words.

To ever leave him behind.

And, after a time, Loki became a good hunter.

He smiles.

Better than good, in truth of fact.

Only Hogan had ever been comparable to him where it came to the art of tracking.

And, after a time, Thor's friends had no longer excuse to protest his inclusion, though still they resented his presence.

Thor's faith in him had won him that. A kind of respect for his abilities in the wilderness, grudging though it may have been.

It is in these memories of the past, Loki again finds himself longing.

He wants to see Thor, he realizes.

He wants that with a sudden desperation which is, to him, alarming. And he feels a kind of sinking dismay as he remembers, then, if he wishes at all to retain his brother's faith in him, if he wishes at all to preserve the somewhat redeemed image he left to Thor, he can never see him again.

Loki cannot.

Odin, though, has no such restrictions.

And so, it is in memories of the past, Loki decides he will go to Midgard.

He will find Thor, and his Lady, and he will see them.

Even if he must go wearing this false face, still, for a time anyway, he can give himself this.

And that will be more than he has had.

**Author's Note:**

> So, theory time. I think, in the scene from "Thor: The Dark World", where Loki seemingly dies, that everything he says to Thor in that moment is true.
> 
> Whether Loki really believes he's dying or not, I think the only times we see Loki being truthful are either, A: when he loses control of his emotions and flips out, or B: when he thinks he won't have to face the consequences of being truthful.
> 
> In this particular circumstance, whether Loki is pretending to die, or truly believes it, I think he assumes this is the last time he'll ever, really speak to Thor as himself. And because of that, he allows himself to tell Thor the truth. Loki really does believe himself to be a fool, his self-loathing is always quite evident, and he is sorry, I think. I don't think he feels any sort of pride for anything he's done, and we see moments throughout the film where he's both frustrated and angry at himself for being unable to do the right thing. And it's the same for the things he says to Thor, as Odin, at the end of the film. He feels safe in saying how he really feels, because he doesn't have to then face the consequences of revealing those truths.
> 
> Of course, in my version, he actually thinks he's dying, and I DO believe Loki actually got himself impaled trying to save Thor. Because, for one, we see throughout the films how Loki's and Frigga's illusions vanish when touched, but that didn't happen to Loki when he got run through, so clearly, that wasn't an illusion. Secondly, Loki could have so easily chosen that moment, when Kurse is beating the hell out of Thor, to simply run away and make his escape. He could have easily left Thor to his fate, but he didn't. Instead he saved him, and put his own life very much at risk in doing so.
> 
> Anyway, enough explanation. I'm planning on continuing this and delving into what happens after Loki takes the throne of Asgard, and everything that comes out of that. So this is just sort of a prologue. I hope you enjoyed it! And please let me know what you think!


End file.
